


Bienvenido de Regreso

by m4jor3tt3



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: Abuse, Animal Abuse, Multi, graphic depictions of animal abuse, graphic depictions of bull fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m4jor3tt3/pseuds/m4jor3tt3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based off a headcanon my friend sent me one day that made me cry for forty years and then I decided to write it for her and now here it is enjoy</p>
<p>*SPOILERS FROM THE BOOK OF LIFE (2014) MOVIE*</p>
<p>EDIT: added some tags as per <br/>suggestion/request <br/>EDIT: quick little fix !!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bienvenido de Regreso

It’s hard to stay in one place, married to a soldier. You’re constantly moving from place to place as this practically super human saves cities and countless lives, and at the same time, you have to act like it isn’t a big deal. You have to be strong, you can’t show the worry you feel whenever he mounts his horse and rides off. He could be gone a day, a week, a month, maybe he won’t return at all, and in his place will be his commanding officer with a letter and his cap removed. But no one can ever know you feel this way- you’re strong. Your husband is stronger.

But sometimes you just aren’t strong enough.

*

The second of November is always a joyous time in Mexico- the streets are always filled with parades and dancers, homes are lit with candles and emit a warm glow in the late hours of the evening, and cemeteries are bursting with color and life. Dia de los Muertos, despite the name, was probably the liveliest day of the year, as families of all kinds visited their loved ones who seemed to come back for this one very special day.

It was Manolo Sanchez’s favorite holiday.

Ever since his mother passed away, he always felt closest to her when he was baking bread for her altar with his grandmother, listening to stories about her from his father, and carefully cupping his small hands around the flame of the match he was using to light a candle in her memory. Then he got older and the day became even more special to him, especially with the passing of his father. Although he felt more alone with every passing day, visiting his family plot always made him feel at home.

After his and Maria’s wedding, or rather, his wedding to both his best friends, as he and his wife were always accompanied by their childhood friend Joaquin, it was hard for him to make it back home to San Angel, and more so, see his family. They were always with him, of course, but being unable to lay flowers at his father’s grave or tell his mother about all of Maria’s little quirks that became apparent to him only due to their marriage took sort of a toll on him. He had Joaquin and Maria to keep him company and comfort him if necessary, but sometimes it was hard to keep positive being so far away from the ones he loved most of all. He had his music to keep him sane, though. Singing was always his connection to home, and luckily enough, he wasn’t half bad, and often found himself playing for small crowds in cafes and on sidewalks who left small amounts of money in his guitar case.

It was odd being away from home on Dia de los Muertos, and the three of them were unable to get back home to San Angel for the festivities, but they were together, at least. They visited a cemetery together and lit a few candles for their own loved ones, watched a parade march by- a local band spotted Manolo with his guitar and asked him to play a song with them (one song turned into three while Joaquin and Maria laughed and danced giddily as Manolo sang with the band. It seemed like a perfect day, until the crowds started flooding towards a stadium in the center of town. Joaquin asked around to find out what was happening, then reported back to Manolo and Maria, who were enjoying a late afternoon lunch on the patio of a restaurant.

“There’s a bullfighting ceremony going on in half an hour.”

Maria looked across the table to Manolo, whose smile had faded into a slightly open frown. “Manolo…” Maria said, reaching across the table to gently touch his hand. Joaquin rested a hand on his shoulder. “We can start heading back home- the general told me that some of the other soldiers are heading back to their families anyway-“

“No, no,” Manolo said, shaking his head and looking between the two of them. “I’m fine guys, really.”

“Are you sure?” Maria asked, squeezing his fingers.

“Yes, mi amor, I’m sure,” Manolo sighed, giving his wife a smile. He bit his lip and shook his head, letting go of Maria’s hand and tossing his napkin onto the table. “Let’s go to the ceremony,” he said, getting to his feet and looking up at Joaquin.

“Whoa, really?” Joaquin asked, one eyebrow lifted quizzically. “This is… so unlike you, Manny, are you sure?”

“Yes, Joaquin, I’m sure,” Manolo said flatly, looking up at him with a straight expression.

“What makes you want to go to a bullfighting ceremony, querido?” Maria asked, standing up and smoothing out her skirt as she fussed around in her purse to pay for their meal.

“I’m trained as a torero, I know how these matches work,” Manolo began to explain, offering an arm out to Maria after she tossed some money onto the table and walked around to hook her arm around his elbow. “I just have to find the right moment and I can… intervene.” Maria looked up at Joaquin, pursing her lips nervously as Joaquin swallowed hard. “Er… are you sure that’s a good idea?” Joaquin asked, draping an arm over Manolo’s shoulders. “It… doesn’t sound safe to me.”

“Joaquin, don’t be nervous, I’ve been in tight situations with bulls before, this time won’t be any different.”

*

The stadium is congested and loud. Manolo kept a grip on both Joaquin and Maria so as not to lose them in the crowds. They managed to find empty spaces in the rows of seats, but remained standing. There was an announcer in the center of the ring, going on about the festivities going on later in the evening, and Joaquin and Maria were muttering quietly to themselves as Manolo fidgeted in his seat. Maria noticed her husband’s uncomfortable state and reached across Joaquin to take his shaking hand in her own; Joaquin sighed quietly and rested his own hand on top of Maria’s. When Manolo looked over at the two of them, they were both giving him smiles laced with worry. He managed to smile back, in hopes of reassuring them, then turned his attention back to the ring as he heard the announcer shout the name of the decorated torero stepping into the ring.

Manolo did not have to know this man personally in order to know how arrogant he was. It was something in his over-confident stride, the sneer that tugged at his thin lips, his half-lidded eyes as he waved to the screaming crowd. Manolo tensed up and swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat, closing his eyes as the sound of a bugle signaled the tercio de merte. The three of them had arrived late in the corrida, which meant they had missed the first two stages, but that didn’t make the next sight any more gruesome.

The bull shortly came into view, already exhausted and bleeding profusely from the first two rounds. It was obviously furious- it was a younger male, meaning it would behave with more ferocity and unpredictability. Manolo’s stomach flipped and he coughed, covering his mouth. Joaquin reached over to gently touch his shoulder, but he quickly shrugged away his friend’s careful touch. The bull was walking with a slight limp, but was still walking in circles around the torero, sizing him up as the man shook out his muleta briefly and unsheathed his sword.

“Venga, toro!”

The bull charged toward the waving rad fabric; with great care and finesse the torero spun round, leaving the creature disoriented. He laughed and flashed his crooked, yellow teeth up to the crowd as they cheered. Manolo felt sick to his stomach.

There were a few more basic maneuvers pulled by the torero (Manolo’s father would’ve scoffed and criticized his technique), then the bull was absolutely enraged. It snorted loudly and kicked up a cloud of dust as the torero positioned himself to strike, sword held out and muleta fluttering in the light breeze. His traje de luces sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, but the golden shine of his uniform did little to mask the wickedness in his eyes. With one more shout, the bull charged, pain and hate alight in his eyes, and the torero struck.

The bull cried out in pain- the torero had missed the fatal strike to the neck he could’ve made, and impaled the bull’s eye instead. Shiny red blood streamed down from the wound as the animal bucked and bellowed in agony. When the torero pulled his weapon back, he quickly thrusted it downwards, causing blood to spatter across the sand beneath his feet. The crowd roared in encouragement, but Manolo couldn’t stand to watch this horrendous display any longer. He quickly rose and pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring Maria’s shouts and Joaquin’s attempts at grabbing him. After shoving past the final row of audience members, he managed to make his way into the ring. The torero looked up as he noticed this unprotected bystander in the bloodstained ring, and quickly began to shout at him, telling him to get out of the ring, that it wasn’t safe. Manolo ignored his cries of protest and grabbed him by the front of his uniform, then threw him down to the ground. He was screaming at the cowering torero on the ground, spouting off everything he’d ever argued about with his father, with advocators of the blood sport. His voice trailed into Spanish as he grew more furious, and he spit down into the man’s face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Joaquin and Maria up against the fence separating the ring from the spectators, shouting at him to get out of the ring, but he’s seeing red and will not leave until he’s said his piece. The cowering torero attempted to scramble to his feet, about to argue right back, when his face fell and he quickly backed way to where he entered the ring, then turned on his heel and ran out as quickly as his legs could carry him.

“Manolo, turn around!” Maria’s voice sounded over the now panicking crowd.

“Get back here, Manolo!” Joaquin’s voice rings in his ears.

Manolo glances over at the two of them- Maria is gripping Joaquin’s arm like a lifeline, and Joaquin has tears leaking from his eyes. He then turns to look over his shoulder and-

The bull is racing towards him.

*

When Manolo wakes up, the stadium is empty. There’s a trail of dried blood, presumably from the fallen bull, leading out of the ring, and the night air is cold against his skin. Manolo stumbled slightly with a soft groan- he was extremely sore for some reason; he was probably grabbed and thrown out of harm’s way and got the wind knocked out of him. “Maria?” He called out, taking a few small, cautious steps to regain his footing. “Joaquin?” He blinks a few times, then sees something off near the edge of the ring.

Joaquin’s numerous badges are glinting in the moonlight, he’s kneeling down with… what looks like Maria huddled against his side. Manolo sighed with relief and slowly began to make his way towards the pair. “I was worried maybe you were… escorted out when things started to heat up there,” he chuckled lightly, brushing a piece of hair from his eyes. He stops in his tracks when neither Joaquin nor Maria acknowledge him, then tilts his head, approaching them cautiously. “Joaquin?” He asked nervously, holding a hand out to them as he got closer. “M-… Maria?” As he reached them, he finally stopped and gasped, stumbling slightly backward.

Maria’s shoulders are trembling as sobs rip through her chest, her face buried in Joaquin’s shoulder; Joaquin has one arm around her as he silently cries, his other hand propping something up. The front of his uniform and his right sleeve were stained with blood, as well are the palms of his and Maria’s hands. The cause of the red splatters is lying across their laps.

It’s Manolo.

His body is lying pale and limp, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. His once white shirt is stained with wed earth and blood. Blood that once ran slick and red was now brown and dried on a deep gash that opened his neck wide. There were minor scrapes across his face, but none compared to the wound that tore open his throat. Even if he had somehow survived this heinous injury, his voice would’ve been gone- the only thing that connected him to San Angel, to his mother, to home, would’ve been ripped straight out of him.

Survived.

Manolo gasped again, stumbling backwards. The bull had charged at him, bleeding, blinded, enraged, hurt, and- not knowing the torero that had hurt him had run for his life out of the ring- had attacked Manolo. A horn had driven into his neck, and that’s what killed him. The bull probably ran rampant about the ring before anyone managed to stop it… Joaquin holding Maria close and telling her to avert her eyes…

“No, no,” Manolo breathed, shaking his head as he stepped around Joaquin and Maria, seeing his mangled corpse in the light. “No, this can’t be happening,” he stammered, voice trembling as he raked his hands through his hair. “I… I can’t be…” He pulled his hands from his curls, looking down at them in disbelief. His skin seemed to flicker, the bones that made up his fingers appearing briefly; pieces of flesh slowly began to blow away with a sudden ghost of wind.

“No, no, I can’t be dead,” Manolo sobbed, his bones becoming more and more visible as his flesh flaked away. He looked up to Maria and Joaquin, who seemed to turn to ash in the wind, slowly blowing away. “Maria! Joaquin!” He screamed, reaching out to them. He tried to grab a handful of Maria’s hair, Joaquin’s arm, something, but they disintegrated and slipped through his bony fingers.

“N-not again- I… I can’t… not for good-” He fell to his knees, wrapped his arms around himself.

And then it was dark, and Manolo was alone.

*

When Manolo opened his eyes again, he was surrounded with bright and beautiful colors. Music swelled around him, and there was life in abundance as far as he could see. But his heart was still shattered in his chest, and it seemed as though his smile was gone and would never return. He finally looked up at the sound of a horse’s hooves approaching him, a sing-song voice accompanying it:

”Welcome to the Land of the Remembered!”

Manolo sighed and shook his head as the Captain of the Land of the Remembered went about his speech, something Manolo had already heard once before.

“And, may I ask for your name?” He flipped through his papers, humming happily, but his cheeriness faded as he noticed Manolo was not answering. “Still in shock… I suppose?” He asked, offering a hand down to him in condolence.

“Manolo Sanchez,” Manolo said finally, avoiding the captain’s gaze. “My name is… Manolo Sanchez.”

“Oh, a Sanchez?” The captain hummed, back to his cheery self. He ran a fingertip over a page, then his smile disappeared once more. “Manolo?” He asked, looking over at him again. Manolo nodded solemnly, falling silent. The captain cleared his throat. “Well, uh…” Manolo looked past the captain at the warmth and light coming from the Land of the Remembered, then gave a heavy sigh.

“Welcome back, then.”


End file.
